


Someone Like Me

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink, Drug Addiction, Gen, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...and I can’t stand to see that razor sharp mind wasted away into nothingness, not when I’ve seen it cut so keenly, the edges bright and dangerous. He feels oddly protective of Sherlock, like he’s been entrusted with a priceless natural resource."  A post-ASiP conversation between John and Sherlock about drug use, trust, and crutches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Like Me

 

 _If I told you things I did before  
Told you how I used to be  
Would you go along with someone like me?  
If you knew my story word for word  
Had all of my history  
Would you go along with someone like me?_

 _I did before and had my share  
It didn't lead nowhere  
I would go along with someone like you.  
It doesn't matter what you do  
Who you were hanging with  
We could stick around and see this night through. _

At a Chinese restaurant about six doors down from the flat on Baker Street, John learns quickly that Sherlock likes steamed dumplings, and isn’t above distracting John with the old “Look over there!” trick to steal the last of the order.

He also learns that Sherlock is unfailingly courteous to the proprietor, who, he tells John, is one of the best handwriting forgers he’s ever personally met.

John laughs when Sherlock tells him that, because, honestly, is there any one that Sherlock doesn’t know in London? John doubts it. And he’s happy to get this glimpse into the life of a man who seemed so inscrutable less than twelve hours ago – someone mysterious and strange and more than a little bit odd, but so, so brilliant. Brilliant and cold, like the stars in the night sky; beautiful and sometimes blindingly flash.

John’s now warm and happy and fed, so he’s more than relaxed on the way back to the flat, where they unlock the door quietly and creep up the stairs. John spots his cane leaning against the wall in the hall, amazed that twelve hours in Sherlock’s company and he’s ready to consign the damn thing to the bin, after months of being unable to take more than three steps without it.

 Sherlock makes his way into the sitting room and snaps on the lightswitch, bathing the room in a strange, half-pink glow from that odd lamp above the sofa. John hangs up his coat on the hook behind the door and turns to what will be his new home, taking in with some shock the remnants of DI Lestrade’s  impromptu drugs bust.

The pink case is long gone, collected as evidence, but the mess they left while searching is everywhere. John looks to Sherlock, who is standing with his hands on his hips in the middle of the room, surveying the damage and picking up the jar of eyes Donovan left on the mantle.

“Well, the eyeballs are a complete loss,” he says with annoyance, and chucks the jar, eyeballs and all, into the bin. “Idiots. They knew they couldn’t find anything anyway.”

John is brought up a bit short at the “couldn’t,” as opposed to the “wouldn’t” that he expected. A flash of Sherlock’s nervous face and his quickly drawn breath, and John suddenly has to know.

“How long have you been clean, then?” comes out, which isn’t exactly how he meant to ask the question, but nevertheless is what he wants to know.

Sherlock looks at him sharply, obviously trying to pinpoint whether or not honestly will serve him well in this instance. “Two years,” he says simply. His eyes are wary, though, fixed on John’s face and he is obviously uncomfortable.

John realizes that he’ll have to drag it out of Sherlock bit by excruciating bit, but if he’s going to live here, it’s important that he know everything about this one particular aspect of his new flatmate’s (friend’s?) life.

“Not trying to pry, but, well, doctor here. So it might be a good idea to let me know what it was. So I…know. You know, in case,” he finishes lamely. It’s hard to be tactful when asking for information so John knows what to do if Sherlock ever loses his resolve and overdoses in the bathroom. John really, really hopes this is one of those conversations they can have once and never reference again.

“Do you think so little of my sobriety you find it likely I’ll relapse?” Sherlock says lightly, but John can tell he’s getting skittish. He’s starting to flit about the room, picking up bits and pieces of papers and books and an over turned plant that looked something like nightshade, but John isn’t going to look it up to be sure. He’ll assume poisonous plant until told otherwise.

“No,” John says quietly. “I think you’re two years in, and that’s wonderful, but I’ve seen enough addiction to know how difficult it is. I’m just…letting you know that I-“

“That you what, John? Understand? I highly doubt it. And besides, I was perfectly honest with Lestrade. I am clean. If you’re so worried about it, then we can call the whole thing off, and you can head back to your bedsit. Thanks for the opportune shot, and have a nice life.” Sherlock replaces the skull on the mantelpiece and heads for the kitchen.

John follows on his heels and finds him sorting out stacks of agar plates that the police had scattered over the kitchen table. Sherlock won’t look up, keeps sorting, each plate hitting the next with a clink.

“Look, I need to know this. Are there, or are there not, recreational drugs in this flat?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Why the hell not?” John bursts out. This isn’t what he was hoping for when he came back tonight. An interesting conversation with Sherlock, a hot shower, and ten hours in that massive bed he’d seen in the bedroom upstairs, not a scrap with his new flatmate about, of all things, illegal drugs and the partaking thereof.

“Plausible deniability. Better for your license that you don’t know anything at all.”

“So you admit you have something stashed here,” John says, shaking his head. Fantastic. “What is it?”

Sherlock slams down the last agar plate and it shatters across the table and onto the floor. “Dammit, John, either let it go and move in, or stay the hell out. I don’t need your self-righteous sermons about drug abuse.” He turns to stalk toward his bedroom.

John jumps back from the glass splinters and the venom in Sherlock’s voice. “Sherlock, wait. I’m not trying to lecture you, I just want to be able to help if…well.  Just in case something goes wrong. I know they can; I’ve seen it.” _And I can’t stand to see that razor sharp mind wasted away into nothingness, not when I’ve seen it cut so keenly, the edges bright and dangerous_. He feels oddly protective of Sherlock, like he’s been entrusted with a priceless natural resource.  

Sherlock turns back toward John and his lips are pressed into a thin line, barely suppressed annoyance keeping his mouth tightly closed. He stares at John, eyebrows drawn down, frown lines marring his forehead. “Cocaine,” he finally says.

“All right,” John says as neutrally as possible, while considering where he could find a dose or two of adrenaline to keep in his kit. “Thank you. And is there some around here I should know about?”

“Nowhere you could get to without a pry bar. I just…I feel better, knowing.” Sherlock starts brushing glass into a pile on the table, looking anywhere but John’s face.

 John nods and tightens his mouth and remembers a drab grey cane sitting at the bottom of the stairs. How could he possibly judge another man for his weaknesses when he’s got quite a few of his own?  John finds a newspaper and helps Sherlock scoop the glass into the bin.

They finish cleaning up in silence, until John says, “Do you have a pry bar?”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “I don’t intend to ever use one. I get sick of Lestrade assuming I’ll relapse at any given moment, and then trying to intimidate me over it. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. He’s arrested me twice before, and I’m not letting it happen again, especially not in front of Donovan.”

John snorts a laugh at the idea of Sherlock being arrested by anyone. “Twice? That must have been an experience. I’m sure you went quietly and meekly, right?”

Sherlock smiles. “He wishes. I escaped six times, the last time, before he even got me back to the Yard.”

“Six? I’m surprised you didn’t just make a run for it.”

“Just proving a point. Besides, the last time Mycroft was waiting for me with a little holiday to a rehab centre planned out.”

John sobers at this. “So, Mycroft had you sent to an in-patient?” John’s mind reels at the idea that Sherlock was so bad off he needed to be kept  in hospital and forced out of his addiction. Involuntary sobriety isn’t the kind that usually sticks.

“Lestrade told Mycroft that he’d have me banned if I didn’t sober up. Lestrade sent me copies of cold cases, and I found how much I enjoyed the work for its own merits while I was there. I solved four while I was still half mad with withdrawal.”

“Why am I not surprised?” John’s brain is starting to rebel; he can feel the edges of exhaustion tugging at his body, and he really just wants to get some sleep. There isn’t much more to be said at this point, either; nothing Sherlock told him was particularly shocking, although he is sure that he’s going to worry about it, all the same. “It’s been the second-longest night of my life, I think, so I’m going to kip here and go back for my things tomorrow. D’you mind?”

“Not at all. There are towels in the cupboard.” Sherlock pauses, seeming to search for what he wants to say next. He catches John’s eye, and his expression softens as he smiles. “Good night, John.”

John can’t even call the next time he opens his eyes “morning,” technically, because its one in the afternoon. He stretches, feeling a little worked over but better than he has for quite some time. Perhaps the forced exercise of running about London shook his body loose from the confines of injury, helping him finally get back to healing.

He stretches again, flipping the duvet over the foot of the bed and groping for his jeans when he realizes he smells tea. Strange, he thinks, to smell tea all the way up here - until he spots the mug on the bedside table, still steaming. Next to the mug is a small black case.

John reaches out slowly and lifts the hinged lid. Inside are two vials and one new hypodermic syringe, still in the sealed plastic package.

The sound the vials make when he smashes them between the folds of a towel is the most satisfying thing he’s experienced for quite a while.

 

 _Usually when things has gone this far  
People tend to disappear_   
_No one would surprise me unless you do._

 _  
I can tell there's something goin' on  
Hours seem to disappear  
Everyone is leaving I'm still with you._

 _It doesn't matter what we do  
Where we are going to_ _We can stick around and see this night through  
_   
_Title from: Peter Bjorn and John, “Young Folks”_

 

 

 


End file.
